


The Most Dangerous Thing is to Love

by woodworms_before_breakfast



Category: Merlin (TV), The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Agamemnon (Mentioned) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Briseis (Mentioned) - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Chiron (mentioned) - Freeform, Deidameia (Mentioned), Everything from Merlin is very brief, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Odysseus (Mentioned) - Freeform, Pining Achilles, Post-Canon, Reincarnation, yes i know those two tags are contradictory but idk it feels right to put them both
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:00:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29013978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodworms_before_breakfast/pseuds/woodworms_before_breakfast
Summary: We were two humans who loved one another. In the end, doesn’t that alone give us the right to a happy ending?Patroclus had his dilemma, but so did Achilles. Faced with prophecies that offered both beautiful promises and unthinkable threats, Achilles saw their lives from a different, far more painful perspective.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

My world did not begin with the rising of the sun, nor the tilting of the earth. It did not begin even with the parting of clouds, nor the weary slumber of the moon.

My world began after a half-score of half-life. (When I looked back upon it later, those first ten years of existence seemed a haze of princely idyll, a mist of simple contentment that could only be for one who does not know what he is missing.)

My world began when the exiled son of Menoetius washed up on the lazy shore of Phthia — my kingdom, my destiny, my prison.

And I knew his name, for the news of his arrival had reached my ears, but a strange sense of pride overtook me, and I pretended I did not know. It surprised me, this urge to please the boy in front of me, because he was standing and I was lying flat with my fingers curled around a lyre. Because I had never before felt such need to show someone that I was a high prince, a hero waiting for his quest.

When he finally spoke, I found myself biting back a smile. Now, I did not have to worry that he would find me too desperate, unbecoming for a great prince. Now, I could speak his name however often I pleased. I could take my time and let the syllables embrace me, as I wished his arms did, before they rolled off my tongue.

 _Pa-tro-clus_.

I whispered it to myself that night, as I discovered for the first time what true pleasure meant, alone with only Artemis and the constellations to bear witness through the window. But I felt no shame and no reason to hide from the eyes of the goddess. I was a boy, after all, and I knew even the gods often could not resist that which they found beautiful.

•==||=======> <=======||==•

The other boys only truly noticed him after I named him my _therapon_. Perhaps it was the touch of royalty and status that finally opened their blindness to Patroclus’ chocolate eyes and raven hair. Perhaps they saw at last the sharp angles of his jaw, and the tuft of hair behind his ear that would never lie flat despite his many attempts to mat it down.

If they saw this, it was too late. I had claimed him, and he was mine. This made me smile when they began licking their lips and staring at Patroclus, intense, with the eagerness of a serpent at a mouse.

Philomelion was the most determined of them all. He was rather new to Phthia, and did not fully understand the meaning of a prince’s companion. Nor did he fully understand the meaning of a prince, but that bore me no offense. That was, after all, one of the reasons I had fallen for Patroclus. In the silky words of Philomelion, though, who bared his teeth even as he bowed before me, defiance was less a virtue and more a threat. The other boys warned him with jests and harmless shoves, picking at his pride so that it might not be entirely destroyed later. Yet they could not save him, and it became hopelessly obvious.

The day had been brighter than all before it. We took advantage of Apollo’s generosity and ran down to the shore to race and throw sand and skip stones.

Patroclus trailed behind reluctantly, as always. He thought, perhaps, that no one ever noticed when he crept, half an hour later, into our crowd of sweaty bodies and exhausted smiles. But he was wrong: we all noticed. I had noticed first, before he had become _therapon_ , and the others after. As they arranged the rocks and sand-walls for their games, they wondered aloud where Menoitides was, when he would be joining us. They lamented, through jokes that did little to hide their bitterness, for I was still the prince among them, how Patroclus was out of reach for them. Philomelion boasted loudly as usual.

“Not for me,” he said defiantly, eyes trailing Patroclus as the loping figure appeared over the hill. The ogling cast Philomelion in a shadow that seemed to sharpen the angles of his face. It reminded me of a boar.

“Perhaps it would be wise not to raise your own hopes so that they are not dashed on the rocks,” I said as calmly as I could.

Philomelion darkened instantly. “Why should you care? I do not suppose you understand, _my lord_ , what it is to love that which you cannot have.”

I laughed out loud at that. It was not, as I would later explain, because I found him ridiculous. Nor because I had any malicious strands in the soul woven for me by the Fates that gave me pleasure in mocking others.

It was because, at that moment, he found himself in the same position in which I had been thousands upon thousands of times. I, too, had wondered far too many times how I could ever sculpt myself into a worthy enough man to comb my fingers through those ebony locks, to brush my lips over that lotus-pink mouth. I, too, had spent many a night restless on the bedsheets, pleading with Hypnos to lay sweet dreams upon my brow so that I might forget the blinding presence of Patroclus at my feet.

And so it was with due sympathy that I laughed. Philomelion did not take this well, for he saw a hero, son of the goddess Thetis, taunting the former son of a lesser king. Inside him stormed arrogance and jealousy and a myriad of other demons released by Pandora’s hand.

“You laugh, Achilles Pelides,” he sneered. “What say you we use our blades rather than our breaths, and see if you might still laugh then?”

I saw then, in his stone-still chin, that there was no hope to be found. He would have his battle. He would have it if all of Hades were to unleash its wrath.

Still, I tried to spare him. “I meant no offense, Philomelion. I only meant,” I smiled amicably, “that we have then faced similar challenges when met with the grace and beauty of Patr-”

“Tomorrow,” the boar-faced boy said. “At noon, by the olive groves.”

And thus he wrote his own eulogy.

•==||=======> <=======||==•

My father was not pleased. He was King Peleus, the gentle and benevolent. But he, too, understood the pride of young men and the weakness of older boys. After dinner, he drew me aside and expressed his displeasure, but there was apology there too. He knew I had not been raised to refuse a challenge.

I met Thetis on the shore the next morning and told her. She had told me before, that I was not to fight before others. Her eyes raged and stormed, but she, too, knew the warrior blood coursing through my half-god veins.

“He is a fool, but you may fight him. No one else must be there,” she hissed, before leaping back into the marble waters.

I knew this, that the fight must be in private, and had already settled the matter with Philomelion. He had agreed eagerly, perhaps because he already knew the fight would not end in his favor.

•==||=======> <=======||==•

Patroclus did not blame me for the death of Philomelion. One of the other boys, perhaps Damocratus, had told him of how Philomelion had goaded me and left me no choice. How we had been discussing Patroclus and our desires.

We were not so open with each other then, Patroclus and I. We were still hidden in the burrows of our own fears and doubts, still searching every day for a lingering touch or a lingering smile. So I was not surprised when he took this for a joke and laughed. And he was not surprised when I did not point out the palpable pain in his laughter.

But there began to appear an ache in his voice when we spoke. At first, so small and intangible that, had I not already memorized every rounded vowel and soft consonant that rolled off his tongue, I would never have noticed.

I knew I had betrayed his trust — and my own heart — in claiming him as a companion, yet not giving in to the flame that threatened to burst out of my chest in a fountain of ashes. But I was a coward still, as I would be later, and my only fear may have been my own desire, but it was frightening enough to lock me in its cage.

We were not yet old enough to understand what it was that had overtaken us. We were too young to recognize love, yet too human to escape it. I could trace the disappointment in his brown eyes. Not because I had killed a boy, for he was familiar with the guilt of having no choice, but because I had killed a boy for the first time, _for him_. And I had not relented and told him so, even when it was as clear as the green seas.

Then we spoke of it no longer. As the months passed, I found that I could no longer find any trace of pain and sorrow in his face. I found no spark of hurt in his eyes when someone mentioned Philomelion’s name. Instead, his eyes seemed to glaze over with confusion and listlessness. Something tugged at me, and one day, I finally showed him my drills and told him that no one else but my parents had seen my fighting. He believed me.

I spoke with my mother that night. “He is forgetting Philomelion,” I said. “Or he has already forgotten.” It was phrased as a statement, but a question was tapping below the surface: _Was it you?_

“You will see why, one day.” It was the kind of answer I was used to.

And her quick departure, a shimmering dive into the sea — I was used to that, too.

•==||=======> <=======||==•

It was summer when I heard my first prophecy. On the jagged shoreline down by the sea, where waves towered over even the cypress trees in the early dawn, I scrambled over the rocks to meet my mother.

She had asked me if I was satisfied with my companion, and I had said yes, enthusiastically. There was a hard line to her vermilion lips when I told her this.

“Perhaps it is time I told you the truth,” she said then, her voice saccharine and ice-cold. “The reason why I have taken his memory of Philomelion.”

Next to the white-capped peaks of the ocean, glinting silver and turquoise with the rising sun, my troubles did not seem quite so worrisome. I did not truly think of what she had said until later, as I ate my breakfast with Patroclus. The cheese and bread suddenly grew sour and chalky in my mouth as her words seeped into my brain, filling it with unwelcome concern that had no place at a table where Patroclus was so sweetly licking the olive juice from his fingers.

 _There are two prophecies about Aristos Achaion_ , she had told me. _You shall hear the second later, for I..._ She turned away, cream-white skin glowing with a dusty pink for just a moment. _You shall hear the second later. For now, Father Zeus wishes that I tell you the first._

I remembered how giddy I had felt upon hearing this. Prophecies were made by Delphi for heroes, and not one but two prophecies had been written for me. Perhaps what my mother had often sung so softly to me in my cradle had been true: I would be the best of the Greeks. That was her name for me, _Aristos Achaion_ , and now I felt perhaps it would be everyone’s name for me one day, once I had proven myself worthy of it.

And then Thetis had snatched my world by a string and spun it violently around so that everything fell on its side. She had looked at me with misery dulling her black eyes.

 _You are to find your soulmate, Achilles_ , she had whispered. _Your other half. And once you do, the Fates shall weave both of your life-threads together, so that they are tightly bound, and inseparable._

 _That is not all._ She had spoken this in a rush, as though afraid I would interrupt her. _Your strings shall never be cut, at least never by the scissors that the Fates wield._

 _Instead, you and your beloved shall live forever. It will not be an immortal life as you might imagine, not as the gods live. Live as mortal men, die as mortal men. But death shall never keep either of you for long, and in each life into which you are born, the two of you shall find each other. Always_.

I had not heard much of her words beyond the promise of immortality — or at least, a sort of immortality, unlike that of the gods. The first question that broke through the gates in my throat had not been the one most important to me, but I had spoken it nonetheless:

“Why has this been granted to me, and to the one with which I am to spend my lives?”

(The word _lives_ had fallen so naturally from my lips, I swore I saw my mother flinch. Perhaps my own shoulders had twitched at my boldness, but it went unnoticed as she answered.)

“Although he hates to admit it,” she had replied, “even Lord Zeus does not know. Your prophecies are older than the gods, my son. Older than the Titans, even. Perhaps these words of Delphi had pestered the world under the reign of Gaea herself. And not a soul knows whether it is a blessing or a curse, nor why it was granted. Perhaps one day, as you and your beloved roam the earth, you shall find out.”

She had nearly spat out the word _beloved_. And I had been reminded of the reason I had come.

I readied myself for the question, and its answer. “But why did you-”

“Erase his memories, yes.” She had sighed. “Your soulmate is to be of your choosing, Achilles. You must choose knowing that this is to be the person, as you have said, with which you are to spend all of your lives. I did not want you to make a decision so hastily, and make yourself bound to someone simply because you had once done something terrible to protect them.”

“You thought, if Patroclus forgot how I had killed a boy for him” — she had flinched again — “he would not feel he owed me anything. We would not be bound together, in any way.”

She had nodded, in the sheepish, barely noticeable way that the slave girls did when asked a question.

“Perhaps you had forgotten,” I had said, taking care to throw my words at her as hard as I could without her feeling them too bluntly, “that he is my companion. We _are_ bound together, already.”

I had turned and prepared to return to my Patroclus, satisfied with what I had told her. But another question had crystallized in my brain, as it always did at the very moment when I decided I was finished speaking with someone.

“Why did you not erase mine, as well?”

For a long moment, there had been silence. My back had been facing the shore, and I thought perhaps she had leapt into the sea already. But her voice had come, more remorseful and tender than I had ever heard it.

“Because you are a warrior, my son. And I would not make a warrior forget his first kill.”

•==||=======> <=======||==•

That same afternoon, I was lying on the beach, Patroclus at my side. We were leaning against a thick, mossy log. It had taken us a while to find the perfect log against which to rest; a dry one would feel like bricks, and a wet one like snakes.

For once, my eyes were not fixed upon Patroclus. They were appraising the sea, where my mother dwelled. My mother who had, just that morning, told me that I was the subject of two prophecies. That I would be a hero, and an immortal. That I would have a soulmate. That I could _choose_ my soulmate. And with those shattering words drifting before my eyes, I could not help but direct my gaze towards the unending, unwavering sea. I could not stop thinking, dreaming, imagining: the _possibilities_.

As my thoughts turned steadily sweeter, my head twisted around towards Patroclus. He was beautiful, chin pointing up to soak in the sun and the salty breeze. I prided myself in the fact that the creases and worry lines no longer appeared on his forehead, and his cheeks no longer dimmed or paled in fear around the other boys. The status of _therapon_ did have its benefits for him as well, after all.

When his brown eyes found mine, something snapped inside of me. Perhaps I inched forward. I do not remember. All I thought of was the prophecies, and the immortality, and Thetis telling me that I was a warrior and that she wanted me to remember my first kill. But none of that mattered.

He was the one who crushed our lips together.

I was the one who ran.

•==||=======> <=======||==•

Owls made me uneasy. I hated the way their eyes, round and full as two blood moons, followed me as I picked my way past the trees. The wild grass brushed against my calves, fluttering as I kneeled and prayed. Even as I closed my eyes and asked the gods to grant my wish, I felt the wide owl eyes boring into me, boring into my very soul. They were luminous in the light of the stars, and shone upon all of my regrets until they found the greatest one. _I was the one who ran._

The early morning was a veil of slowed time and pleasant daydreams. Hope rose with Dawn, their fingers creeping over the shadowed horizon and tickling me as I knelt in the brush. Pelion was still quite a distance away, but I had no intention of making it there too soon. Not alone.

Perhaps I stayed there for an hour, but a year passed (or perhaps a millennia) within my chest. _Thump, thump_. My pulse slowed with every minute that passed, as my heart began to sink and drown in weary despair. _Thump, thump_. Silence was rare in a forest like this; perhaps it was not silent at all, but it seemed so to me, alone on my knees.

_Thump, thump._

My eyes shot open. This was not the thump of my heart. The crunch of sandals on stones and weeds. The sweep of a nervous palm against the fabric of a tunic. The—

One glimpse of the mop of raven hair, a glimmer of sunrise reflected in two jewels of chocolate-brown, and I was on my feet. I threw him to the ground in my joy, and hugged him. It was not until I felt him, still yet trembling in my arms, that I realized he was afraid.

“Patroclus,” I said, to let him know that it was me, that I had waited there for my heart to catch up with my feet.

Then he was smiling, and my world was complete. Chiron reprimanded me with his eyes, for making him wait, but I could not find in myself any remorse. My grip on Patroclus was firm, enough so that Chiron saw, and raised a brow. I dared him, silently, to object. He did not.

We mounted Chiron happily, and I felt Patroclus slide his arms around me. _I would be happy_ , I thought, _to die now, at this moment_.

•==||=======> <=======||==•

Pelion was a blur of naïve leisure and counterfeit peace. I did not take enough care to store memories of Chiron and flashing streams, picking berries and mushrooms, notching an arrow with Patroclus’ breath on my ear. Instead, it felt like my mind only truly began to live when my father sent a man with the message of war. I received his news with open arms.

I do not think Patroclus realized what the news was. He had always been the kinder of the two of us, if not the kindest of all men. But part of me felt it, at the very instant that the man came scrambling through the brush. _War_.

And later on, every part of me would always agree that my greatest regret was how I did not turn and kiss Patroclus as we realized that our carefree bliss on Pelion was over. I would always wonder what had stopped me from whispering to Patroclus that it was alright, that perhaps we should stay awhile longer to say goodbye to Chiron, that whatever the news, it could not be as important as what we had discovered together on that mountain.

Perhaps if I had embraced him and told him this, he would not have had to go with me to Troy. (Perhaps I would not have gone, either.)

As it was, I nearly catapulted myself off of Pelion and to Phthia below in my joy. The only thing that contained my thrilling impulse was the trembling weight of his hand on my arm. _It will only be a few days,_ I remember telling him, as we packed. I had felt so certain. Even as the rest of me yearned for the golden glory that awaited me in what I knew, even then, would be my first and greatest battle — even then, my soul still hugged the slopes of Pelion with a sigh, because Patroclus did. No matter what destiny reared its magnificent head, the deepest entrenched parts of me belonged to him, and him only. I knew how he loved Pelion, and I knew I did, as well.

All of that was forgotten when we lowered the anchor by Phthia. Thetis was the first whom I was to greet. She was a goddess, so even as a mother, she could not come second. I relished in her cold touch, if only for awakening me from the daze of glory.

That was the last time that I saw her as my mother. Because that night, she stole me away from my Patroclus.

•==||=======> <=======||==•

“Achilles.”

His whisper was clearer to me than the storm of screaming Phthians below. I loved the way my name sounded from his lips. _Achilles_. I had grown up answering to quick, eager _Achilles_ ’s, crunching through teeth as they smiled the smiles given to gods, not men. It was always the second syllable that was loudest. _Achilles, Achilles. Kill, kill._

But Patroclus drew out the last syllable, easing it to a finish like the last stroke of a brush. _Achilles_.

I hoped my expression conveyed the adoration I felt as I gazed upon him. He was smiling, too, but there was a sadness there that I desperately wanted to wipe away.

The crowd below chanted. _Aristos Achaion! Best of the Greeks!_

I could not help it. The corner of my mouth pulled into a grin, and the joy of hearing my people’s voices poured the warmth of Apollo himself down my throat, into my chest. My eyes were still on Patroclus. Slowly, something like resolve came over his face. He nodded.

“Achilles, go. They wait for you.”

With a tilt of my head, I turned and faced Phthia. The swarm of raised arms and lifted chins roared as I stepped on the plank. Glory swept over me in a dizzying wave, and I stumbled down towards my people. Perhaps I did not turn back, at the bottom, to make certain that Patroclus was a step behind. But I was too distracted, then.

Scyros had been an adventure, a bare caricature of what Pelion had been. Though the days lazed by in much the same way, my feet had ached with anticipation and fear for Patroclus. What I saw as glory, I knew, was danger for him.

But we were back, now. I had him with me, for whatever the Fates had in store for us. All I could do, then, was march down the plank and greet my father.

We embraced, tightly and dearly. Perhaps my youthful rebellion had blinded me on Pelion — or, more likely, Patroclus had — but I had not realized how much I’d missed Peleus until our arms were wrapped around each other. I leaned in to murmur in his ear so that Patroclus, who had followed me, could not hear.

“Where I go, so he goes,” I said.

When I tilted my head back, scrutinizing Peleus to see if he accepted, I saw only a blank mask with resignation glazing over the eyes: he’d heard, and understood of whom I spoke. We clasped arms as father and son, and I stepped into the chariot, glancing back to make certain that Patroclus was a step behind.

•==||=======> <=======||==•

I could tell he was not happy, those days before we left Phthia. It would be dishonest to say that I was unhappy, surrounded by battle-ready faces gleaming with sweat and vigor, all turned towards me for direction and leadership.

But every time we rounded a corner in the palace, I glanced behind us, and he would not be there anymore. I would try to stop and wait, but they rushed me along, asking question after question, demand after demand. _You are a prince, before you are a man._

At night, I would try to show him how I had missed him, through tender touches and whispered words. He would smile and nod, because it was not in his nature to hold a grudge.

I could see the misery in his walnut-brown eyes, the loneliness, and I hated myself for placing it there. _It will only be a few days_. My arms wrapped around his, silent and slippery apologies.

When the day came for us to leave, we both felt the relief washing over us, like the ice-cold cascades of Pelion running over our skin in the scorching heat of summer. He was as tired of waiting as I was, if for a different reason. As Odysseus led us to the ship, we twined our fingers together and breathed, as one.

•==||=======> <=======||==•

He knew that I would not forgive him for Scyros. But he was Odysseus, prince of Ithaca, son of Laertes, and he would not surrender. He leered and joked, shoving Diomedes around for amusement, hoping to extract a laugh from me. But I did not forgive him, because he had called for Patroclus as well. And he knew what it was that kept me and Patroclus together, and he smiled at us in a way that was far too different from Chiron.

I did not wish to entertain his hopes of friendship. So on the ship, as the clouds admired themselves in the mirror of the ocean, I stayed by Patroclus’ side, and we leaned against the taffrail with the salt wind in our hair.

Patroclus was still hurt, I knew. Deidameia had done more to him than wed me, even more than go to bed with me. He had told me (as we told each other everything) what she had done to him, as well.

 _No one has ever tried to take something from me_. On the shores of Phthia, words spoken between two boys. Jealousy was frightening, if only because I had never felt its piercing anguish before. I had clenched my fists and groaned, cursing Thetis and Deidameia and my unborn son.

But he had gripped my arm fervently, and asked me to be kind, to have clemency. He was Patroclus, kinder than I, kindest of men.

•==||=======> <=======||==•

“The ocean was warm today.”

“Did you swim?”

“Yes, when you were talking with Diomedes.”

“Oh. I am sorry I missed it.”

“It is alright.” A pause. “How much longer, do you think, until we arrive in Aulis?”

“I do not know.”

“When we do arrive...”

“Yes?”

“Be careful, Achilles.”

A kiss.

“I am full of care, for you.”

•==||=======> <=======||==•

It may have been Agamemnon’s army, but it was Menelaus’ war. As I stepped off the plank of the ship, greeted by a field of wide eyes and awed whispers, I searched the crowd for fire-red hair. Instead, the first that I saw was the hooked nose of the eldest son of Atreus. His beetle-black eyes glistened with anticipation, with angry hunger; he seemed to prowl like a wolf as it lurked around the carcass of a deer it had killed, watching a lion feast on its hide.

He caught my eye and smiled pleasantly, pulling his lips back to reveal yellow teeth. His smile was different from that of Thetis, who smiled like frosty fire. Agamemnon had a slippery smile, something greasy and cold.

I would not bow to her, and I would not to him. I heard Patroclus suck in a breath behind me, but my back would not bend to a man who would use war for himself. A man who would, given the chance, burn his kingdom to the soil so that he could rule over the ashes.

“I have come to win your war,” I heard myself say.

His face twisted, so that his cheeks stood sharply angled, his hair casting shadows, like tusks, on his face. “Have caution, Achilles Pelides. Even a half-god, as you, must learn the meaning of fear.” He gestured towards Menelaus, who grinned and shrugged, almost apologetically, in our direction.

 _But I know something that you do not, son of Atreus_ , I thought as the Myrmidons followed me towards our camp. _I shall live forever, with my Patroclus, and you will not. What have I to fear?_

•==||=======> <=======||==•

Odysseus had a friend of his own, Leucus Areïthides, whom he kept beside him day and night, for counsel and for comfort.

“He has a secret, too,” Leucus told us one night, in Aulis. His face was half-lit by the campfire, and his cheeks were rounded with the food stuffed in his mouth.

He had joined our camp, having become good friends with one of the Myrmidon captains, the demigod Eudoros. Their friendship held together a frangible bond between my Thessalians and Odysseus’ Cephallenians. Eudoros, a quick fighter and fleet sprinter, was one of the most beloved Phthians. I knew this, and so did not approve of his associations with Leucus, who was, in my eyes, no more than a fifth limb of Odysseus.

“Who has a secret?” I asked, my eyes narrowing. We all three of us knew of whom he spoke, yet I wanted to ask.

“Odysseus,” Leucus said. There was a silence, in which we prodded at the fish in our bowls, and dug our heels into the sand.

I huffed. “Go on.”

“You were not the only one to avoid the war,” Leucus continued, and he did not notice the flare of nostrils, which warned that I was angered. Patroclus did, and gently set down his bowl. “Odysseus feigned madness, an unstable mind, so Agamemnon would not demand that he be drafted. Yet anyone with half an eye can see, the prince of Ithaca has the most stable mind there is, one that grants him the favor of Athena.”

The crackling of the fire popped in our ears. We savored the heat on our cheeks, and still the rage crashed into our brains like the waves hurtling against the rocks onshore, then dissolving into water once more. _Odysseus had feigned madness, to avoid the war._ Patroclus almost laughed aloud, and despite the storm brewing in my chest, I smiled as a beautiful grin curved his lips.

“Tell me, Leucus Areïthides,” I said, leaning back against the log. It was a comfortable log, not dry nor hard nor mossy, the kind we spent hours searching for on the beaches of Phthia. “Do you know any heroes? The greatest heroes?”

“Yes,” Leucus replied with a duteous nod. “And I am surrounded by many of them this night.”

I bared my teeth. “Tell me the story, of one of them. Any one, that you choose.”

Leucus thought for a moment, and I admired him for the effort, to show that he considered. “I shall tell you, then, of the hero of Calydon, Meleager—”

“No,” Patroclus interrupted. I met his gaze, and knew he was also thinking of Peleus and his grim voice, of Phoinix and his dark eyes. “Tell another.”

Leucus glanced at me for concurrence, and received a nod. “Alright,” he said. “Then I shall tell you of Tlepolemus, son of Heracles, whose great house sits on a hill in Rhodes. He killed his father’s uncle, Licymnius, and no one knows if it was an accident or an act of rage. Some say he was beating an insolent servant, and Licymnius stepped in between.”

“Did he weep?” I asked.

Leucus hesitated, confusing knitting his brow.

I would not relent. “When he saw that he had slain his father’s uncle, did he weep?”

“Yes,” Leucus answered, simply.

“Then it was an accident,” I said firmly, and my hand was tight on Patroclus’ thigh. “Tlepolemus did not see, until after, whom it was that he had slain. He was in shock, and he wept. It was an accident.”

Patroclus had picked up his bowl once more, and was dutifully spooning bites into his mouth. His head was hung so that he faced the ground, and I could not see his eyes. Yet I saw his shoulders quivering, and heard the shaky breath that left him.

When he raised his head again, as Leucus continued the story of Tlepolemus, his eyes were shining and pink in the firelight. I smiled, and with his own hand, he covered mine, which was still on his thigh. He thanked me with kisses, later.

•==||=======> <=======||==•

My face must have been pale as the winter moon when Iphigenia was murdered at the hand of her own father. I must have betrayed every knot of cowardice and regret in my pallor, for Patroclus was gazing at me with concern etched in his beautiful cheeks.

But I was not paralyzed for the reason that he thought. I was staring at the second death I had ever witnessed, not the first, with memories of Philomelion’s sharp-angled face and Phthia’s rocky cliffs flashing before my eyes.

Patroclus did not know. I sent a prayer of thanks to my mother, for the first time in months.

I could not bear to remind him, because I loved that he had forgotten.

•==||=======> <=======||==•

There had been a tournament once, when I was very young, in a different kingdom. It had been one of my first races. Peleus had gripped me by the shoulders as we rode there, and told me I was to win, but that he would be proud even if I did not.

He also told me, I was not to tell my mother he had said so.

My toes had tickled with anticipation as I settled in line beside the other boys, adjusting my position and preparing for the starting signal. The sand had been hot and coarse under my feet, unlike the soft grains of our Phthian beaches.

The king there was watching us from his seat in the stands. His shoulders were broad, his jaw hard and his beard dark. There was a cold fire in his eyes as he stared down at us.

It had not been until the second round that I noticed the smaller throne, beside King Menoetius. The boy sitting in it, hunched over so that the shadows swallowed his meager form, was barely perceptible from below. He was not watching the race, but playing with something in his palms. The laurel, to crown the winner. If I squinted, I could see his long, slender fingers combing through the leaves.

My thighs burned with a new urge in the laps that followed. I had guessed that I would win, as Thetis had told me I would. But I had not wanted to, until I saw the laurel in his hands.

The wreath was placed on my head by the king. It was crumpled in several places, as though the leaves had been pinched and scrunched by fiddling fingers. On the way home, I could not resist lifting it off my head and to my nose, inhaling the fragrance of the buds. But there was a scent lingering on the leaves, left by long, dark fingers, the scent of figs and kalamatas and sweet moss. I had never felt so human, as when I first took in his scent.

I thought of this during our first battle at Troy. After months of fearful anticipation melting into impatience, it was like Elysium, the feel of the spear in my grip before I threw it, the strength of the shield in my palm, the beat of my knees against the armor clasps as I ran. There was a rhythm there, in my fleeting steps, as though to replace my heartbeat.

But I could hear my pulse drumming in my ear, and never louder than when I lost sight of Patroclus for a moment. The ecstasy, the freedom I felt did not keep me from staying in a close circle around him, ensuring that no one got any nearer to him than I would allow.

And his scent wafted through every cleft, every crevice in my flesh. It spread within my armor, and I remembered his long fingers flying around my body as he dressed me. I fought with the fury that sprung from the thought of living a life without inhaling that scent. He tried to fight for himself, but I would not allow anyone close enough for him to do so. I would not lose him, for we would have our lifetimes to come.

•==||=======> <=======||==•

When Thetis visited us in our tent on the autumn festival day of the seventh year, she told us of the third prophecy. That the best of the Myrmidons would not be long to die.

My sleep-flushed brain thought first, _how fortunate am I, to have not one but three prophecies written in my name_. I did not notice the starch-white fear in Patroclus’ eyes. I did not notice the grim set of Thetis’ lips.

And I did not remember, as I should have, that no mortal man is ever allowed three prophecies, because the price is always far too terrible.

•==||=======> <=======||==•

Agamemnon was too fat a boar for me to let escape. His tusks gleamed with arrogance, and in carving them off his face, I did not notice how I had grown an awful arrogance of my own. I had let him take the slave girl, because in doing so, he would seal his own fate. Briseis, after all, had never been dear to me as she was to Patroclus. Even less so, when he told me of her wish to have a child with him.

Even so, my confidence quavered at the sorrow, the disappointment in Patroclus’ eyes. His hair was tousled from ripping at it with his hands, and I ached to smooth it down. I could not bear to stay with him in the tent, not when I could see all my humanity lost in his chocolate-brown eyes.

I called for Thetis that night, by the sea, so that she could tell me my ambition was not misplaced. Asked her to plead with Father Zeus, asked her to restore my dignity and my damned pride. She looked at me, lips thinned and sharper than the icy rocks on the shore, and did not speak. I raged and stomped and hurled my fists in the air, but she stared, and stared, until I had exhausted myself and collapsed knees-first into the water.

The pause could not be described as silent, not with the Aegean roaring behind us. Yet it seemed remarkably quiet to my ears, as I longed for comforting words, for affirmation. At long last, I felt her hand on my shoulder, a dead weight with no grip, but reassuring nonetheless.

“Have you thought of the first prophecy?” she said at last.

I stiffened, and she did not feel it, or perhaps she chose to ignore it, because her hand remained calmly upon my shoulder. “Yes,” I said. It was true, more than I would have admitted; the first prophecy, of soulmates and eternity, filled my dreams every night.

Her hand tensed. “And have you considered-” She did not trail off, as a human would have done, but she did not wish to continue, so she cut herself off, surely and stubbornly, as a god.

“Yes,” I replied, thinking of unruly hair and warm, brown arms around my waist.

There was disapproval, even outrage, written over her pale face. “And you wish for me,” she said slowly, “to ask Father Zeus for your prayer to be granted?”

Waves, shattering on sand and gravel, throwing bits of shells and seaweed in every direction. They carried life in them, or at least they used to. I felt something smooth and cold against my heel, and looked down to see a bluefish sliding against my flesh. Its scales glistened in the ink-black water, distorted by the current and by the bubbles dancing towards the surface. A small wave lapped forward, and the bluefish vanished.

My skin felt strangely colder. “Yes, Mother,” I said. “I have considered the first prophecy, and” — I clenched my fist — “and I am still searching for… for my other half.”

I could not bring myself to meet her gaze, but I felt the icy heat of her gaze dissipate from the top of my head. The weight on my shoulder disappeared. I could nearly taste her satisfaction, radiating off of her white skin in waves of salt and divinity.

“I shall request a meeting with Father Zeus,” she said, her voice lighter and silky. “I shall ask him to grant your wish. He owes me, as I have saved him once, so I believe he shall grant it.”

She was gone. I had not looked up, but the water warmed, and the shadow disappeared from the corner of my eye, so I knew she was gone. Shame flooded me, a voice inside weeping and begging: _What more? What more will you give for your pride?_ And my heart plummeted, my stomach wrenched, when I found Patroclus in the tent with blood dripping from his wrist.

He was red-faced, tears streaking his cheeks and moistening his flushed lips. There was a roundness to his shoulders that I hated, but I could not think of anything else but that he had gone and seen Agamemnon, and Briseis.

I thought of a kiss on the beach, my feet slamming against sand, and then dirt. I thought of Thetis and a meeting at dawn, by the shore. I thought of my world, dangling by a thread from her milk-colored fingers, as she spun it round and round, offering me a prophecy and a threat. Patroclus would be mine, as I was already his, and this would be fact until eternity, even if I had to give my life thousands upon thousands of times for it. I inhaled, and prepared myself to speak, to give in. He must have seen my jaw twitch, for he spoke first.

“Do you want to know what she told me?”

I nearly shook my head. He was angry, and I was not far behind. I was afraid not of what he might say, but what he might drive me to do. But his voice held more desperation than bitterness, and so I shrugged in consent.

There was a silence, and I thought he had changed his mind. But then, fingers brushing my chin, coaxing my gaze up from the sandals on my feet. He wanted to look me in the eyes as he spoke, because that was Patroclus, and that was how he wrecked people. Not with fists or swords, but brutal, deadly compassion.

“If you do not get what you deserve in life, be assured that you will in legacy.”

•==||=======> <=======||==•

He had always been the kinder of the two of us, if not the kindest of all men. And the bravest, and the strongest. I thought this as I buckled and fastened my armor around his slim shoulders, the skin shining and olive-brown under my fingers. Our silence was not a breath held, but a sigh released. This would be over soon, but not thanks to me, because my own pride forbade it.

“Bring him back to me,” I said to the Myrmidons, to Automedon as he stood beside my Patroclus in the chariot. There was fear, and guilt, blocking my chest and washing away important things, like the _I love you_ that screamed to be released from my throat.

My heart crumpled as I watched the chariot disappear down the beach. _I must apologize_ , I thought, craning my head to watch as my armor flashed in the distance on the shoulders of a man more worthy than I. _I must fall at his feet and grasp his chin in my palm, and ask for his forgiveness. I am not worthy of him_ , I thought, pulling the tent flap open and collapsing on our bed. _When he returns tonight, I will show him how sorry I am_.

Then I thought of his smile, and the tuft of hair behind his cheek that would never lie flat, and how it had felt so soft under my touch as I dressed him in my armor.

 _No. Enough_ , I thought. _When he returns tonight, I will meet with Agamemnon. I will fight tomorrow._

Dreams would have welcomed me with warm, open arms, but I felt restless, giddy with satisfaction at the decision that I’d made and the pride I knew I would see in Patroclus’ eyes when I told him. I left the tent and climbed the hill near our camp to watch the battle from the ridge.

As I clambered up the rocks and crevices, my resolve wavered. Perhaps a part of me still retained that divine pride I’d inherited from Thetis. But Agamemnon was only a tempestuous river, and on the other bank I would be worthy of Patroclus. I would cross it, for his love.

By the time I reached the top of the hill, my heart nearly burst, and my limbs shook with excitement at my decision. After all, I had been born for battle. Not for cowering from a ridge, while men stormed and screamed below.

Something swelled in my chest as I watched, knowing he was below, taunting the Trojans with the glorious beauty that was all his own, despite wearing my armor. I was proud of him, I realized.

_As you will be proud of me, philtatos, tonight, when I tell you what I’ve decided_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from “Achilles Come Down” by Gang of Youths


	2. Epilogue

I blamed myself for more reasons than one. As I held his body in my palms, the tears I wept felt pitiful and wretched, far less than what he was worth. I remembered my youth. I had been so beloved a prince, surrounded by boys who wanted nothing but my favor. Yet I had cried alone in my bed every night, before drifting into dreams, or nightmares.

And I had prayed, like a coward. For something terrible to happen. For something to give just cause to my tears, so that when I shed them, there would be a reason. I would not feel so ungrateful for the life of sunshine and ease offered me by the gods, and by Peleus. So I had prayed silently, to any who might listen. I had asked for a reason to explain my unhappiness.

 _Here it is_ , a voice whispered as I cradled my beloved in my arms. My _philtatos_. Here was my reason, and the bitter hatred rising in my chest was as much for myself as it was for Hector.

Thetis was not happy when I told her, just as she had not been happy when I had asked her if she could see us on Pelion. I remembered the first prophecy she had told me, of soulmates and of eternity.

As she stood by me in the tent, I gripped the cold flesh under my hand. “It is him,” I whispered. “I choose him.”

_Your prophecies are older than the gods, my son. And not a soul knows whether it is a blessing or a curse, nor why it was granted._

She tried to stifle it, but I could hear the huff of breath that escaped her lips after I spoke. I held on even tighter to my Patroclus — _my cold, dead Patroclus_ — and would not look at her.

I do not know where the story of my heel came from. My feet had always been the quickest, lightest of my limbs, the ones he peppered the most with his kisses. Perhaps they wanted to make me more of a god than I was. But the truth is here now, and I am glad. I was human, because he made me so.

•==||=======> <=======||==•

One thousand and seven hundred years later, a servant walked through sturdy oak doors to find a prince collapsed, crushed, in his royal chambers. A golden chin raised, and blue eyes met blue as green eyes had once met brown.

Pain, the kind that can only come from memory, was grey and sharp as a rock on the prince’s face. He stood, trembling, and approached the servant. He cupped his hand underneath a pale chin to slowly flatten a tuft of unruly black hair.

Recognition sparked on the servant’s face. He dropped the load of armor in his arms, and they embraced, tighter than a vine would grip a tree.

“Merlin.” _Patro-_

“Arthur.” _Achi-_

•==||=======> <=======||==•

_It was a blessing after all_ , she said. They nodded and murmured their agreement.


End file.
